


The Past Is Still Present

by toomanynames



Series: Surrounded by Spies [2]
Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Breathplay, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Angst, POV Second Person, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomanynames/pseuds/toomanynames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucas' past rears its ugly head and nearly ruins everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Past Is Still Present

You were surprised when Lucas asked you to move in. You've barely been dating eight months, and he's still so hesitant to share things with you, and yet he'd asked you one night when you'd stayed over, in the lazy moments just before falling asleep. You hated putting that shuttered look on his face when you said you needed more time to think on it, but you hadn't wanted to jump right into saying yes without thought.

And then the next morning, you woke to him watching you with such a tender look and you'd breathed a heartfelt yes into the kiss you gave him.

And now... This.

Lucas is normally at work all day, or you assume it's normal. You only just moved in a couple weeks ago. But when you walk in, work done early, it's to Lucas bent over backwards with his head in the kitchen sink filled with water, naked but for the towel slung low around his hips.

"Um," you say, not meaning it to come out so loud.

Lucas gasps and jerks upright in a move that makes you wince, and water and soap fly in every direction. He stares at you, wide-eyed and gaping.

Neither of you says anything for a long moment, and then you venture further inside. You squint at his dripping hair. "Were you.... Washing your hair?"

He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. "I... Yes."

It still doesn't make sense. "Why? Is the shower broken?"

"No. I'm.... I..." He looks everywhere except at you, his brow furrowed, and then he heaves a huge sigh. "You better sit down. Let me put clothes on."

And then he retreats towards the bedroom, shoulders slumped dejectedly, and your heart's pounding painfully in your chest. He's either going to break up with you, or thinks you'll break up with him. Or he has a terminal illness and he didn't know how to tell you before now, except he seems to be in fine health and you don't know what kind of illness would require washing hair in the kitchen -

A light touch to your wrist makes you jump. Lucas looks at you in concern as he pulls his hand back quickly. You catch him before he's out of range, relieved that he lets you tangle your fingers with his.

"I was zoned out, you startled me," you say, but he only nods and leads you to the sofa.

He urges you to sit, and then he sits on the coffee table in front of you, wrapping his hands around yours and staring at them. You wait, giving him time, but all he does is look at your hands, his thumbs sweeping back and forth over your wrists.

You wiggle your fingers and quietly prompt him, "The sink?"

He hesitates, glancing up at you, and then haltingly explains. "I was in a... a Russian prison for eight years. Tortured for four. I came back five years ago, roughly."

You blanche. Prison was certainly not what you were expecting. "You were in pris - why were you in prison? In Russia?" Your voice squeaks, and you bite your lip, trying to stay calm.

Lucas winces, and you know it's bad. "I was in Moscow for.... I had... I..." He trails off uncertainly, looking at you with a lost expression, and then he slumps, takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly. When he speaks again, his voice is dull.

"I'm an MI-5 agent. Another agent sold me out while I was on a mission in Moscow, and I was tortured for information on an operation I didn't know about." He looks away for a moment, but when he looks at you again he can't hold your gaze for long. He takes another deep breath and tells you the rest.

Past relationships, betrayals, what he went through in Russia, what his tattoos mean. It seems like his entire life story comes pouring out of his mouth, and then.

And then.

"Lucas North is not my birth name." His voice shakes, his hands tremble around yours, and you're rooted to the spot as he turns your entire world upside down. "I st-stole it, from a friend I killed in Dakar after blowing up a British Embassy."

"I feel like there's more you're not telling me," you say faintly, reeling from the information.

He nods. "I was there shipping cannabis until I was caught and stranded there without money. I worked in a casino until a man approached me and convinced me to deliver packages in exchange for money. One of the packages was the bomb."

"Why... Why are you telling me this?" You ask shakily, pulling your hands from his and standing.

"You asked for an explanation, so I gave you the truth. All of it." He looks up at you, looking like he wants to say something else, but he holds it in.

"This is... I don't. Do I even know who you really are?" You move away from him, pacing, trying to think through what he's told you.

"Of course you do!" He stands abruptly, but doesn't move further than that.

You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. "But I don't! You just told me as much. You've been lying this whole time. How much of us was a lie? All of it?"

"None of it!" He moves then, rushing towards you, but he stops when you back away. "I never lied about this, us. About how I feel for you."

"I can't... I need to leave," you say quietly, your tears spilling over. "I just... I need some space, and time to think."

You don't wait for a response, just turn on your heel and go to the bedroom, gathering up some clothes and shoving them into a small travel bag. He doesn't stop you.

~

You stay in a hotel for a week, thinking about everything he said. You get caught up on the fact that he's killed people, directly and indirectly, and he'll continue to do so. You don't know what his name was before, but it doesn't really matter.

The question is, can you live with knowing everything? You still feel the same towards him, but it's tangled up now with shock and anger and a little bit of fear. Where do you go from here?

Your relationship is still somewhat new. It might have been eight months, but you're still figuring him out, and where you fit in his life. He's been doing his spy business that whole time, and you briefly wonder how many people he's killed since he's been with you, but you quickly discard that thought. You don't need to know numbers.

By the end of the week, you think you can go back to him, but theory and practice are very different things. More than anything, you need to know if he's different with you, now you know. That should tell you if he's been wearing a mask around you for eight months or not.

~

It's late when you finally convince yourself to go to his flat. Most of the lights are off when you quietly walk in, save for a lamp in the living room.

You should probably call out as you head towards the couch, but you don't. And it turns out to be unnecessary, because upon rounding the couch, you nearly trip over Lucas.

Your heart thumps painfully at the sight of his sprawled form, thinking the worst, but then he shifts slightly and sighs, and you notice the nearly empty bottle sitting next to him. Well, at least he's not dead.

You kneel down next to him, wrinkling your nose. It smells like he bathed in vodka. Hoping he's not so sauced that you can't rouse him and put him to bed, you reach out and lightly shake his shoulder while saying his name.

At the first jostle, he gasps and flails to a somewhat upright position, looking around wildly. His eyes land on you and he freezes, staring hard for a long moment, and then he sighs and rubs his forehead, muttering about laying off the drink so he's not pestered by dreams and wishful thinking.

You frown and poke his shoulder, making him jump. "Hey. Can you get up?"

He squints at you, hesitantly reaching out, but his hand drops before he touches you. "Yes, I think so." His voice comes out hoarse.

"Come on, I'll help," you say, holding out your hands.

He looks at you for a long moment, and then takes your hands. He probably still thinks he's dreaming.

You help pull him up to his feet, turning your face away now you can really get a whiff of him. "You smell like a distillery."

"Spilled some," he mumbles, shuffling along with you as you tug him towards the bedroom.

"Drank a fair amount, as well," you grumble. You had plans to curl up with him in bed tonight, needing the closeness, but not when he's doused in booze.

You steer him instead to the bathroom. The original thought had you shoving him into the shower and telling him to wash, but you remember prison and Russia and the lengths he goes to to wash his hair, and you change your mind.

Instead, you tell him to strip and then fill the sink with hot water, getting out a couple of towels and a wash cloth. One towel you unfold onto the floor, directing Lucas to stand on it, while the other stays on the counter for now.

Once the sink is full, you wet the cloth and lather it up with soap, stepping towards Lucas. You can feel his eyes on you as you scrub him down, re-wetting and re-lathering as needed.

You start at the top and work your way down, leaving his hair for last. When his top half is clean, you set aside the cloth for a moment to get his toothbrush and squeeze some toothpaste onto it.

"Brush," you order, holding the brush out to him. He takes it obediently and starts brushing, still watching you as you continue washing him.

Once his body is clean, you move him, picking up the towel and draping it over the toilet. You let him spit and rinse before pushing him towards the toilet. "Sit," you say, and he does.

You rinse out the cloth but don't wring it out before bringing it towards him. He's still watching you, and doesn't flinch when you rub the dripping cloth over his head, getting his hair wet. You do it a couple of times, until he drips, and then you pour a bit of shampoo into your hand.

"Okay?" You ask, lightly touching his cheek and stroking down to the stubble at his jaw.

He nods, carefully placing his hands on your hips as you rub the shampoo into his hair. You scrub your fingers through the dark strands, all the way to the nape of his neck and back up again.

His eyes slip closed and he sighs, tilting his head into your hands. You slow your ministrations, massaging his scalp and tugging lightly at locks of hair, pushing them into different styles before smoothing them out.

When you've had your fun and decide he's clean enough, you soak the cloth again and carefully rinse his hair, watching his face for signs of discomfort. But he remains relaxed throughout.

After the soap is all rinsed away, you grab the other towel and dry him off, rubbing vigorously over his head before letting it slide down to drape over his shoulders.

Forced bathing done, he finally moves on his own, but only to wrap his arms around your hips and pull you to him, burying his face in your stomach. He doesn't shake or tremble, but his breathing feels ragged through the thin layer of your shirt, and the fabric grows wet.

You sift your fingers through the hair at the back of his head, stroking his upper arm with your other hand, until he's calm and his hold is less desperate. Then you bend down to kiss the top of his head, lingering to breathe him in. You've missed his scent, and you're very glad you decided to wash the alcohol off of him.

Gently, you nudge him back and urge him to stand, which he does reluctantly. You brush away a few errant tears from his cheeks and then take his hands in yours. "Come on, let's put you to bed."

As you lead him to the bedroom, you ponder his behavior. This docile, obedient side of him is new, but you think it has a lot to do with the vodka, and his apparent desperate desire for you to stay. He displays that need again once you've pushed him into bed, his hand wrapping lightly around your wrist.

"I'm not leaving," you say quietly, remaining in his loose grasp. "I'm just getting undressed."

He looks at you anxiously for a long moment, and then lets you go. You can feel him watching you as you strip down to your underwear. It makes you a little nervous, but then you feel silly for feeling nervous.

You shake your head slightly as you turn back to the bed. Lucas looks a little surprised at your state of undress, probably that you're willing to crawl into bed with him at all, let alone at this level of nakedness.

He readily accepts you into his arms, though, wrapping around you like he always has before. You smile slightly, settling comfortably against him and tangling your legs with his.

When he starts to say something, you put your fingers on his lips, stilling them. "Sleep now. Talk in the morning."

He nods and kisses your fingertips, and then tucks his head down next to yours. You lie awake for a while, feeling him drift off, until your eyelids grow too heavy and you finally succumb to sleep.

~

You wake the next morning with Lucas still wrapped around you. You're not all that surprised that he's still asleep, and it gives you a chance to observe him completely unguarded.

There's a tiny furrow to his brow, and you can't help but lift your hand to lightly soothe it away. He shifts against you, but doesn't wake. You're not sure what it says about you that you're comforted waking up to his face again. Most people you know would probably tell you to leave, after everything he's told you.

Leaving isn't fully off the table, but you're unsure about what to do. You love him, that hasn't changed, and other than lying the whole time he hasn't hurt you at all.

Your thoughts are interrupted when he mumbles and squeezes you slightly. His brow furrows again as he comes awake, probably trying to process what's different this morning from the past week.

He squints his eyes open, blinking at you blearily for a few sleepy moments, and then his eyes widen. "Am I awake?" He asks roughly and uncertainly.

"I think so," you reply softly, running your fingers through his hair.

He inhales sharply, fingers tightening on your waist, and then he leans in and buries his face in your neck. "I thought it was a dream, last night."

"I don't know what you might have dreamt about before I came in," you say, scratching lightly at his scalp. "I just hauled you to the bathroom to wash away the alcohol smell and put you to bed."

He sighs, pressing a kiss to your neck. "I'm sorry you came home to that."

"I liked washing you," you confess, tugging at his hair.

Pulling back, he looks at you for a long moment, lifting his hand to your cheek and sweeping his thumb over your cheekbone. "I'm sorry for denying you that for eight months."

You suck in a breath, reminded suddenly that there is this serious issue between you. You don't move away, but you watch him closely for any sign of him shutting you out.

"We can't... _I_ can't do this if there are going to be secrets between us," you start haltingly. "I need to know you're not lying to me anymore."

His face remains open while he responds. "I can't give you everything; that's the nature of the job. But I'll give you everything I can."

You were expecting that much. You don't want every detail, anyway. Especially not if he's killing people. "I don't honestly know if I will be able to stay, in the long run. Everything's all... Jumbled, in my head, I don't know how I feel about it all. But I don't want to leave."

He nods, looking pained. "We'll work through it." He rests his forehead against yours. "It was easier, at first, to keep you in the dark. But I hated it, every second. I disappointed you a lot."

"I'll still be disappointed sometimes; I kind of like spending time with you." He laughs, and you relax into him. "But I think, in theory at least, it'll be easier to accept when I know it's because you're stopping terrorist attacks and keeping the country afloat."

He brushes his nose against yours, kissing the tip lightly. "I've been on probation since I finished rehab. Harry hasn't let me off the desk yet."

"Harry is your boss?" You wriggle closer, pressing against him chest to hip.

"Mhmm," he hums, leaving a trail of kisses from jaw to collar bone. "He's very strict. But it's to keep everybody safe."

"Good," you breathe, tipping your head back. His fingers run along the edge of your underwear, dipping under the band to stroke the soft skin over your hip.

Reaching down, you push his hand down, taking your panties with it. Encouraged, he pulls them off and tosses them, and then slides his hand over your ass and down your thigh, pulling your leg over his hip.

You gasp as he presses against you, not quite hard but growing harder. He shifts, his cock rubbing along your clit and making you shudder. You shove at his shoulder, pushing him onto his back, and then you swing your leg over him and settle on his lap.

His hands come to rest on your hips and he rakes his eyes up your body. The way he looks at you never fails to make you shudder, how his gaze says he wants to shatter you and cherish you at the same time. Usually he ends up doing just that, but you want something different this time.

You want to take him apart, take your pleasure from him until he begs for his own release. You want to be in control.

"You look like you're making lists," he murmurs, running his hands up your sides.

Bracing your hands on his chest, you shift your hips, rubbing against his hard cock. His breath catches, hands tightening over your ribs. "I might be making lists," you say conversationally.

"What kind of lists?" He lifts up against you, groaning when you press down harder.

"Hmm, the kind entirely made up of ways to use your body for my own pleasure," you say, stilling the grind of your hips. You draw your fingers down his torso, seeing and feeling his muscles contract under your touch.

Sliding your hands back up, you continue to his neck, cupping it and brushing your thumbs over his jaw. He tenses beneath you, swallowing hard, and then forces himself to relax.

You frown, loosening your already loose hold on him. "I didn't -"

"You're fine," he says, reaching up to press your hands firmly to the sides of his neck.

You pull your hands away, shaking your head. "If it's making you uncomfortable, it's not fine."

"It's just an instinctive reaction, I'm not uncomfortable with you touching me," he insists, reaching for your wrists and bringing your hands back up.

You bite your lip uncertainly, letting him do what he wants with your hands. "I don't want to mess with your instincts..."

He squeezes your wrists, looking up at you trustingly. "You won't mess with my instincts. Nobody else is going to be touching my neck, and if they do..."

Your imagination can fill in the rest; you're pretty sure his coworkers won't be the ones violating his personal space. You're not sure how to feel about him openly declaring violence against other people, but you file it away for another time to dwell on.

"You can... You can squeeze a little, too. If you want," he says, his breathing picking up.

You unconsciously squeeze when he says it, and you watch in wide-eyed fascination as his mouth falls open and his eyes darken. His pulse jumps against your palms, and his cock twitches.

"Oh," you breathe, and do it again, a little tighter.

He moans this time, the vibrations buzzing through your hands. You shift, and slide easily against him, and you realize that this alone is making you incredibly wet.

Reluctantly you pull away, settling your hands on Lucas' chest, ignoring his deep sound of loss. He slides his hands onto your thighs and kneads, blinking up at you.

"This is something we should use safe-words for," you explain quietly, tracing the tattoo across his chest.

He hums, looking thoughtful, and then says, "Ransom."

You repeat it, and then nod. "Much as you would like me to continue choking you, I had other plans I wanted to get to first."

"You do still mean sex, right?" He looks so concerned that you giggle, leaning down to kiss him lightly.

"Yes, I mean sex," you mumble against his lips. "I would like the use of your mouth for a while."

"Oh, a while, she says," he chuckles, deepening the kiss. "How long is a while?"

"Until I tire of it," you growl, nipping his lips. "You got somewhere to be?"

He grins, curling his hands around the backs of your thighs. "Well, there's this gorgeous woman in my bed requesting the use of my mouth, so I better get to it. Where do you want it?" He urges you slowly up his body, dragging his mouth down from yours to your neck, trailing wet kisses to your collarbone and then further down to your breasts.

"Would you like it here?" He licks between your breasts, and then seals his mouth over a nipple and sucks, grazing with his teeth and flicking his tongue.

You have to steady yourself on the headboard as he works you over, his stubble scratching your sensitive skin. "Don't," you pant, fidgeting in his hold and against his mouth. "Don't tease."

He surprisingly relents, kissing your taut nipples. "Come on then, up you get."

He guides you up until you're straddling his head, his arms wrapped over your thighs. He shifts to get comfortable, then turns to kiss your inner thigh, leaving a trail of sucking kisses as he pulls you down.

You shudder at the first slip of his tongue over your clit. He circles it slowly and then sucks for a long moment. The sensation makes you jerk and you grind into it, whimpering as he moans in appreciation and holds you tighter to his mouth.

He is slow and gentle first, licking between your folds and teasing around the rim of your opening, not dipping in but lapping over it. It's not until you're whining with need that he gets more aggressive, plunging his tongue into you as far as he can before moving up to flick over your clit.

You're thrusting against his mouth, needy sounds falling from your lips. "Lucas... Lucas, please," you gasp, and he obligingly seals his mouth over your clit and sucks hard.

You shout, jerking against him and shaking apart in his grip. He continues to lick and suck at you, until you're quivering with too much sensation and have to tug harshly on his hair to get him stop.

Pressing a lingering kiss to your clit, making you whimper, he eases you up and over so you can slide down to rest bonelessly against his side. His face is wet from you, and you push up just enough to lick at his chin, humming at your taste on his skin.

He rumbles like a great purring cat as you lave your tongue over his jaw. "I love the sounds you make," he says lowly, sliding his hand up to cup the back of your head.

You utter a small pleased sound, and he hums agreeably, almost moaning. Propping yourself up on his chest, you look at him with interest, and he looks back, gaze half-lidded.

"You really like me being noisy," you comment, running your hand down his body and stopping just above his cock. He shifts, cockhead brushing the back of your hand and leaving a smear of precome. You lift an eyebrow, leaving your hand where it is.

Stretching up, you nuzzle into the hair just in front of his ear. "Is it the noise itself, or that you're making it happen?"

"Bit of both, but mostly that it's because of me." He slides his hand down, reaching for his cock.

You grab his wrist and press it into the mattress by his hip, squeezing lightly. " _My_ plans," you say, and he shivers against you and relaxes.

His reactions this morning have you thinking of all the things you haven't done but could have been doing the past eight months, and you really wouldn't mind the roles being reversed, as well. Not that he hasn't been able to keep you happy at all, but you suppose him being honest about his work and past lets him trust you with letting go more. If he ends up having a bad reaction to something because of, say, things that happened in Russia, he can tell you that.

If he still has trouble with even taking a shower because of what happened, what else does he still have trouble with? You're suddenly extremely grateful that you walked in on him awkwardly washing his hair, because he doesn't have to explain it or try to make up excuses anymore.

You surge up and kiss him, letting go of his wrist and bringing your hand to his neck, just resting your fingers on the side. He makes an inquisitive sound, tangling his fingers in your hair and tugging lightly. You press closer, shifting your hand to cup his neck, brushing your thumb back and forth along his jaw.

When you pull back for air, you stay close, your nose bumping his. "I love you," you breathe, lips grazing his.

He goes completely still, and so do you, realizing what you said. Eight months together, two weeks living under the same roof - not including the last week - and neither of you has said it, though you think it's been heavily implied.

With his hand in your hair, he pulls you back enough to look at you, his expression unreadable. "What?"

You know he heard you, but you can't tell what he wants you to say. Your heart races, and you swallow hard. "I... I love you."

He doesn't give you a chance to say anything else. He cups your face with both hands and pulls you to him, kissing you frantically, desperately. You try to keep up, your hands resting on his wrists. This reaction is unexpected but certainly not unwanted, and then he goes from fast-paced urgency to slow, languid kisses.

You mewl as he sucks on your lower lip, teeth just grazing the inner edge, and then he pulls back enough that you're sharing panting breaths.

"I love you," he murmurs in the hairsbreadth of space between you. Your heart skips a beat.

"Yeah?" You press a light kiss to his mouth, giddy all of a sudden.

He nods gravely. "More than anything." He gives you a slow kiss. "More than any _one_ ," he whispers, with another slow kiss.

He rolls to his side, pulling you flush against him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you hitch your leg over his hip, wanting to be closer. His hand strokes down your side and thigh to your knee, and then starts a slow glide back up. You hum happily into his mouth.

He stops kissing you in a dwindling series of soft kisses, lingering against your lips, and then he rests his forehead against yours, brushing your noses together. "What prompted such a lovely confession?" He asks softly.

Nuzzling closer, you give him a quick kiss and then trace his lips with your fingers. He nips at them, flicks his tongue against the tips, and you shudder out a breath.

"I was just thinking," you murmur, one finger playing with his lower lip. "About how much you must trust me to tell me everything you did."

"Very much," he says, kissing your finger.

"I'm figuring that out." You lightly grasp his jaw, holding him still while you lick into his mouth.

He shifts against you, adjusting your hips against his until his cock can slide into you. With a gasping moan you hitch closer, as close as you can get, shivering when he presses deeper.

"Is it raunchy sex time?" You ask, nipping along his jaw and grinning when he sniggers in your ear.

"If that's what you want," he says, rolling his hips. "Did you have something in mind?"

You clench around him, enjoying his grunt and the stutter of his hips. "I recently discovered this pretty neat thing that involves my hand around your throat."

"Oh," he breathes, stroking your hip. "You've discovered my weakness."

"Can I exploit it and make you lose control?" You brush your fingers down the side of his neck, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

"Come and find out," he whispers, holding you tightly to him as he rolls to his back, putting you on top of him.

You rock in his lap as you push yourself up, settling one hand on his arm while the other grazes the front of his neck. He tips his chin up, baring his throat to you.

Such trust he has in you. Telling you his past and what he does because he trusts you with his life; revealing certain desires and allowing you control because he trusts you with his body and his heart.

Your hand wraps around his neck, just resting there. You feel the vibration of a low sound that you can barely hear, and it makes you growl with the pleasure of it. You lift up and ease back down, your breath catching at the feel of him in you, and you set a slow pace.

His hands make their way to your waist, serving as anchor for you both. At the first hint of your hand tightening on his neck, his hips rise to meet yours. You relax your fingers, rubbing up and down his arm, and increase the pace of your hips.

The sound he makes gets garbled when you really tighten your hand around his neck. His fingers spasm over your ribs as he bucks, making you cry out.

"God, _yes_ ," you gasp as you release him, his pulse leaping frantically against your thumb. You look down at him, how he already looks blissed-out, his pupils blown wide. "Safeword?" You want to check in, make sure he's still with you.

He shakes his head, squeezing your sides. "More," he pleads. "Please, more."

You stare down at him, amazed that he's begging for it. That's something you'll definitely explore later, but for now you give him what he wants. What you both want, really.

You lean down, squeezing just this side of hard, feeling the catch of his breath. He mewls out a tiny sound through the restriction and grips your sides as he thrusts up. You groan in his ear and tighten your hand a little more. He thrusts harder.

Releasing his neck, you nuzzle his ear as he pants, thrusts slowing. "Do you fuck me harder to tell me how much you enjoy it when I choke you?" You murmur in his ear, petting his throat.

He moans brokenly, barely managing a loose nod. You kiss his ear and push back up. "Keep it hard when I let go," you order, quickening your own pace.

His hands move to your hips, grabbing hold. When your hand starts to squeeze, he growls and fucks up into you, pulling your hips down for greater impact. He keeps it up when you release him, and even when you start to come, though he falters a bit.

"Don't stop, don't stop," you pant, and he fucks you through it, keeping you wound tight and ready for another.

His moans turn desperate and he fucks you even harder, grip gone bruising. You're right there, right there, and you squeeze his throat one last time, "Come for me, Lucas."

Mouth falling open on a silent wail, only a wheeze escaping, he thrusts once, twice, and then stays there, grinding into you and holding you against him. His hips jerk again in his need for air, and then you're coming again, clenching around his spurting cock.

Your hand loosens and the tail end of a whine leaves him, hips stuttering against you as he settles onto the bed. Easing down so you're lying on top of him, you curl your arm around his head and stroke your fingers through his hair, pressing your lips to his flushed and sweaty cheek.

He's shaking as he wraps his arms around your waist, but you don't say anything. You just rest against him, soothing him with your hands and mouth until his breathing slows and the trembling eases.

When he's calm and starts stroking your back, you shift to move away. He holds you tighter, a rough, protesting sound leaving him.

It makes you smile. "I just want to get something to clean us up," you murmur, brushing kisses over his cheekbone.

He sighs and lets you go, hands sliding reluctantly off your skin. You press your smile to his temple, nuzzling him. He grumbles as you lift yourself off of him, softened cock slipping from you along with his semen. You shiver at the feel of it and laugh at his displeased look.

"Don't move," you tell him, climbing clumsily from the bed and heading for the bathroom.

You get a cloth wet and wipe yourself down, then rinse it out and trot back to the bedroom. Lucas hasn't moved at all; in fact, he looks asleep. But when you crawl up next to him, he cracks his eyes open.

A content hum vibrates through his chest as you clean him up, and he touches you lightly, on your side, your leg, your arm, anywhere he can reach. When you're done, you drop the cloth over the side of the bed and curl up against his side, reaching up to lightly trace the shadows your fingers put on his neck.

"Any work this weekend?" You idly ask, giving his neck one last caress before moving down to walk your fingers over his tattoos.

"No," he says, voice a little hoarse. You shiver at the sound of it. "Took some time off."

"Oh good. We can be incredibly lazy and domestic and have lots of sex, then." You grin up at him.

He groans, rolling you both so you're on your back with him hovering above you. "I don't think I can survive lots of sex," he says roughly.

You wiggle, opening your thighs for him to settle between, and he does, and it feels good, just having his skin against yours. "We can have lazy sex, too, it doesn't all have to be fast and rough."

"No?"

You shake your head. "We can do slow and gentle. In fact, that's probably all I'll want while the bruises on my ass heal. Cuddling, but with your dick in me." 

He laughs and leans down to try and kiss you through it. That proves impossible, because now you're laughing, too, but neither of you want to stop, so you spend some time grinning against each other, then kissing, and then sniggering into each other's mouths at some stray thought or another.

It's comfortable, and easy, and you'd almost lost it because of fear and confusion and anger and revealed secrets, but it's still yours. He's still yours.

**Author's Note:**

> if you feel like throwing questions at me about this 'verse, definitely [feel free](http://autumn-grimmlins.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
